


a streetlit dark night

by insideascarecrow



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Manga Spoilers, Slight Implied Violence, agnisoma if u squint, dark soma - Freeform, dark!soma, excuse me while i go cry over soma for the 248th time, hi do u ever read a chapter and feel physically broken? because yeah, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:00:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29753730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insideascarecrow/pseuds/insideascarecrow
Summary: Soma has never really known grief.
Relationships: Agni & Soma Asman Kadar, Soma Asman Kadar & Ciel Phantomhive
Kudos: 4





	a streetlit dark night

Soma has never really known grief. Is that what this is, then? This feeling, like someone is raking their claws over his heart. He continues walking, quiet, aimless steps, on and on. The fine robes feel misplaced, dirty on him, because nothing, no matter how clean, will rid his body of Agni’s blood.

He remembers the events of last night. It always came down to Ciel, didn’t it? Ciel, who stood over Agni’s broken body, purple hair whipping around his face, that eyepatch gone, revealing; not a hidden kindness or vulnerability, just another evil eye. Ciel, who he had trusted, and who had stabbed his heart,  _ Agni _ his mind whispered, stabbed Agni and left him to bleed. 

So Soma walks, shoulders slumped, his wooden case clutched in his hand, cutting sharply into his fingers. Somehow he can’t bring himself to care. His black hair falls limply across his face, and he is tired, so tired, gaunt circles under his eyes.

He watches a black carriage rattle by, dark horses rearing and neighing. Passerbys give him strange looks, so he tilts his head haughtily, that’s all he knows, and turns the corner into a narrower alleyway.

Here, in the trenches of inner London, the poor sleep. Babies whimper, and flies hover over flesh. Soma knows these streets. He has come here before, to this hellhole ringed by stacked flats and even higher, a grey sky.

A boy, all blond and all hope, runs up to him. “Hey, Mister! Mister Curry and Bread Man!” He feels an insistent tug at his robe. “You always give out curry and bread on Wednesdays, don’t you? But you weren’t there yesterday, why? I went and saw, but you weren’t there!” As he speaks, his voice gets higher pitched, and Soma can see the holes in his clothes and the dirt.

“I can’t give out anymore curry and bread ,” he says, shoulders slumped. Somehow he feels guilty.

The boy frowns, and pushes at him, years of rowdiness living at the streets pouring out. “What? I can’t believe this! I rely on you, you know?” And when the boy points into the dark corners of the alley, Soma looks and he sees the mother and the child, frail, thin, and battered by cruelty. The boy’s words become white noise in the background. But Soma has always been charitable. Always been kind. That’s what he is. And so he reaches for the necklace, and the boy, half disbelieving, clings to it like it is gold. Which it is. Soma should feel something. That euphoric happiness he feels normally when the poor’s eyes sparkle is gone, replaced by an apathy. And now, when the boy turns back to him, sobbing, all he sees is Agni. He remembers Agni’s voice, his smile, always eager to serve, eager, eager, happy, and Soma’s only true friend. Now gone.

He is shaken out of his reverie by the men. They crowd the boy and his mother, and there are hoarse laughs. He tries to step in, tries to do what he has always done, but he doesn’t belong there.

They surround him too, and when they grab the urn from him, Soma feels wretched, like his heart had been ripped out. And it breaks, and he breaks. He breaks.

The men are on the ground seconds later, and the boy’s gratitude turns to fear. Why was he ever generous? Was it just to placate himself? A sense of self accomplishment, perhaps. This was what people did. Grab at whatever they wanted, whatever they didn’t need. And so he turns, hugging the urn to his chest, footsteps more decisive. The blood feels as sticky as it did that night, and a wave of anger rises up inside him.

He remembers Sebastian’s quiet condescending smiles, and a surge of hatred rises in his heart. It was all an act. He should have guessed it sooner, that that butler with the long black coattails was really the demon that he had thought him to be.

The Indian palaces he used to frequent so freely seem like distant memories, because then, in that blaze of colour and light, Agni was always there with him, beside him, Agni and his hand of god. He chuckles dryly, but his throat feels hoarse. Wasn’t Agni always there with him? This, this feels like a daze, when Agni is neither there with him or not there, in a half state of being, in just his mind.

What have you done, Ciel Phantomhive? He shudders, remembering that accursed castle.

Soma slumps onto the floor, breathing in deeply, hatred burning deep inside him. He doesn’t feel cold, not even in this icy London air, but he draws his cloak around him all the same. All he can do now is get revenge.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> this fic was the result of me sobbing over soma asman khadar at 5 am,,, he didn't deserve what he got.  
> despite that, dark!soma is really interesting to me, but it breaks my heart that we'll probably never get to see happy soma again...  
> my tumblr is @iredescentscarecrow.


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